


Would Evil Really Be So Bad?

by janemee



Series: Chaotic Fitzroy AU [2]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Catholic Guilt, Character Study, Family Dynamics, Prayer, can you tell the author is having a faith crisis?, fitz is catholic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:13:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24632899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janemee/pseuds/janemee
Series: Chaotic Fitzroy AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1777864
Comments: 9
Kudos: 22





	Would Evil Really Be So Bad?

As Dendra Maplecourt pulls the old family wagon in front of Hieronymous Wiggenstaff’s School of Heroism and Villainy, Fitzroy begins to regret being born.

She is blaring gospel music, loud organ notes scream from inside the wooden caravan, and her rosary is swinging wildly from where she has tied it to the canvas above her head. He wants to crawl into his skin, but instead he dutifully loads his suitcases and takes his place next to her on the wagon. 

His cloak and other fineries have been stowed away in the luggage, and he presents to her the same as he had when he left home: shaggy blond hair left without product, and styled simply, with a wooden rosary around his neck and a pin depicting Saint John fastened to his doublet. 

He avoids eye contact with his peers as they ride away, the swelling voices of Latin church choirs following them, but he could swear that he saw Argo cast a lingering, open-mouthed glance in his direction.

The ride home is long, and as much as Fitzroy is thankful for the break, hopeful that the whole Chaos thing will blow over before he has to return to school, he questions if the farm is really the best place for introspection. Sure, he’s dreamt of spending days out on the fields, sun on his skin, and far away from Chaos, but as Dendra begins her scathing line of questioning, he realizes that he hadn’t fully imagined what living at home would be like. 

Her words feel like fire on his skin, countless attacks, prying open his chest to reveal himself for her. She questions about each of his friends, about Goodcastle, villany, especially how  _ friendly  _ he seemed with  _ that boy Argo,  _ and asks for retelling of his magic experiences in excruciating detail. They’re a couple hours from home, and he’s about ready to scream. 

Then, the question comes, the one that turns his bones to rocks and makes him grit his teeth. 

“What are you even gonna do after you graduate? You know no one back home will hire you, ‘cause of your… outbursts.”

In that moment, everything goes silent, still. He fights his own head for a minute, caught in between wanting approval and wanting to tell the truth. His hands go to fidget with his cloak, but it’s not there. He settles for running a smooth thumb over Saint John’s face, reminding himself to be calm, be brave.

“Well, Ma, I’ve got a job lined up. I met the person who gave me my magic and I’m working with them to control it more.”

“What do you mean? We get our magic from God.”

“Well, mine’s different, I think we can agree on that. And, the entity that’s behind my powers is… Kind of the embodiment of Chaos.”

“Wait, hold on a minute FItz. I leave you alone for a few months so you can go off to some high-falutin school and you come back with a demon? Is this connected with that outburst Higgleguy called me about?”

“I’m not possessed Ma! The- well let’s call it the- experience I had in the woods was the first time I met Chaos, and no one else got hurt. Since then, We’ve done some work on the appropriate ways to reach me, and I’ve compromised some of my mental faculties to better do their bidding.”

“Do you hear yourself, son?!” The wagon is stopped now, and Dendra tenderly touches his face, apparently looking for a wound, markings? Evidence of Chaos? “You don’t sound like my boy anymore. You’ve always been so good, Fitzroy, my good boy. What happened? Who’s doing this to you?”

“I think I just told you, I’m working, I’m, I’m starting a new life with an employer and it’s my choice.”

Dendra purses her lips and looks at him more intently. “You sleep now,” The words come like a sweet breeze, and she waves a hand across his face. 

Everything is heavy.

His dreams are deep and soundless, but the phrase “You’ve always been my good boy” penetrates the entirety of his mind. He remembers how he used to kneel by the door with his mother every morning that the caravan went out, praying for his father’s safe return. 

He remembers seeing generations of his neighbors become knights, farmers, travellers, bards, and the parties they would hold in the big church down the road. 

He remembers his mother watching his brothers from the small window in their kitchen, worrying prayer beads over the sink. Has he changed? Has he drifted away from who that little boy was? The toddler who was always willing to pray, to speak about God, to dutifully say grace over dinner? Why doesn’t he feel evil? Why does working with Chaos feel right? Has he progressed past the need to be good? 

Worst of all, would he even be scared if he was evil? Would that really be so bad?

He sleeps fitfully, meditating, and occasionally coming to the surface of consciousness before his mother notices and brings him back down. He hears her voice, shrill and angry, simply agonizing over his state. 

“We’ve indulged him for too long!”

“Gone to that city and-”

“He thinks he’s grown!”   
“Could never work with that-”

Her lips hiss ‘demon’ over and over till it’s all he can think.

He hears his father, and smells the warm vanilla tea he sets by his bedside. He feels a large hand on his chest.

He feels his bedroom, familiar childhood surroundings, and either because of exhaustion or peace, he sleeps.

Darkness.

Darkness.

It’s still, and he thinks of nothing, truly nothing, not even Chaos

When he wakes for real, he is back on the farm, the first thing he sees is the crucifix above his door. He grabs the vanilla tea. It’s gone cold, but he sits, cross-legged on the bed, and drinks it, summoning and vanishing Snippers a few times, just sitting in the early morning light.

He remembers the day he left the house, how he readily swept the floors and tucked everything into their places, but now, as the sunshine filters through his windows, it exposes dirt and dust on every surface. It has been here, waiting for him.

Eventually, he finds the strength to go downstairs. His mother is nowhere to be found, and the big work boots are gone from their place on the porch, so he has a few hours to himself. He busies himself with unpacking, making sure to hide his most precious possessions, the book of far speech, a raccoon skull from Rainier, and a homemade brooch from Argo all find their way to the absolute bottom of his drawers, beneath a floorboard, and the crawlspace inside his closet. As long as they are safe, he can handle this house. 

At lunchtime, his father returns, and they sit wordlessly for a while, looking at each other from across the long oak table.

“Well, you’ve made your mother pretty upset, son. I’m surprised she let you wake up while she wasn’t here.”

“Yeah, I know, How much did she tell you?”

“She said you’re working with some sort of demon entity, and that you need to learn some humility.”

_ If living in this house is teaching me humility, I never want to be humble ever again. _

“And I’ll admit, I’m not quite sure what to do with you either, son.” The smooth voice continues, and Fitzroy feels smaller in his chair. “It’s hard to see someone so much different than you carry your name, your genes, you’re supposed to be a part of me, you came from me.”

The two men pause, forks clinking against bowls, stillness.

“Would you want to come on the caravan?” Jerry offers, “Would that appeal to you?”

“Not at all, Pop. I…” There’s that fight again, approval or truth, “I really am living a life that’s fulfilling, it’s just a little stressful right now.” 

Saint John’s face begins to feel sharp under his thumb, the pads of his finger now red and raw.  _ Strength. Bravery. _

“I love Argo, and the Thundermen, I’m making a good name for myself. It’s just- sometimes everything gets to be too much. With my magic, I get scared that I’ll do something, or hurt someone.”

“And that’s why this Chaos guy comforts you.”

“Yeah, I feel like they know me? Or at least get the deal? I feel like I’ve met my other half, someone who needs no explanation for what I am.”

“It makes sense to me, son, but I think we all need a minute to pray on this. There are gonna be some rules, about how you can use your magic in the house, and your mother is gonna have a few things to say.”

“Gerald Fitzroy Maplecourt!” He mutters mockingly, “You better not let Chaos break any of my china!”

The larger man laughs, a sound Fitzroy could spend days soaking in. His father stands, ruffling his son’s hair, and pulls on his boots once again. 

“I’ll see you at supper, Kiddo.”

“I’ll be here.”

He returns to his room, stopping to inspect the shrine they’ve built by the stairs. Mary, John, and Saint Botolph are all front and center, their candles burning bright. God, he’s spent hours here, hoping to be anything but a caravaner. He trips up the stairs, bruising his shin on the dark floor.

_ Fucking cosmic. _

In his room, he lets Snippers run around, and they play fetch with little sticks and pieces of paper they find around the room. As the day turns to afternoon, and the golden sun creeps downward, they settle into a comfortable laziness, lying on the bed, content.

Fitz’s fingers grow restless, missing Argo’s mustache or the ties of his cloak, he begins to rub at the rosary around his neck. 

Is he really evil? And if he were, would it really be that bad?

As his fingers grow tighter around the beads, his lips move on their own. The simple prayer he’s been taught his whole life, comes to him without a second thought.

_ Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. _

Is Chaos evil? Who’s to say what’s morally bad in a system that’s made to entertain?

_ Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. _

He’s being trained in theatrics, in taking a character and making it his life, in lying. What about that translates to morals? Why can they not be separated?

_ Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen. _

Is God real? Is religion even applicable to this new, weird thing he’s a part of? What is Chaos if not his God, his reason? What could ever be evil if he is in service of a God?

_ Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. _

He doesn’t remember the last time he prayed. In a training exercise, maybe, he lifted up an ‘Ah, God!”, but that doesn’t count, right?

_ Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. _

The words taste strange, fumbling like marbles but they’re beaten into his head, he’ll never forget them. They coat his tongue like cold vanilla tea.

_ Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen. _

He’s not sorry, not repentant at all for yelling at his mother, for growing apart from the provincial life he’s led for so long. He’s not upset at her, either, it was a shock the first time he met Chaos, and maybe all good things come to those who wait, maybe he just needs to show them. He’s not evil, It’ll just take a while. It’s not evil, it’s just new.

_ Hail Mary, full of grace….. _

“Yes?”

A hushed voice interrupts his thoughts. Fitzroy is almost scared to reply.

“Chaos?” he whispers back into the empty room. They’ve never met him in the daylight before, they usually knock him out first.

“Chaos? Is that you?”

“I’m here, Agent, what would you ask of me?”

“What? No-nothing!? I- Chaos you can’t be… Where are you?”

**_“Here.”_ **

And the room is gone, but Fitzroy isn’t asleep. He would know if he was, right? His shin isn’t healed, and he vanishes Snippers quickly, testing his magic. He’s all here. He’s fine?

“What’s up, Chaos? Why do I have home field advantage? That seems a little unwise for an entity that’s usually so thoughtful.”

“Mocking me, Agent? Are you calling me stupid? Questioning me?”

“Not questioning, per se, just respectfully asking if it’s in your best interest to be here. Chaos, my parents… they think…”

“I’m aware what they think.” Images, flashbacks, flood both of their minds, displayed on the walls of their space like movies on a screen. “Fitzroy, if I needed your parents to like me, they would. You still seem so unconvinced of my power, I would hate to consider what kind of quality that speaks to in an agent.”

“Whoa, okay, I get it, Chaos, no one’s questioning or threatening your ability. I’m just… saying that while I’ll work with you, I need autonomy to live, to run the thundermen, to keep going to school-”

“ **_Hush, Agent.”_ ** Their voice is overpowering, shaking his mind. “I know all of this, I know. You want our agreement in writing, on a nice, long scroll that you can sign with your heavy feather quill and refer back to whenever you feel i’m getting out of hand, yes?”

“Well, yeah. Actually-”

“And yet you prevent yourself from obtaining this by stretching out your trial period. Making me test you again and again. You know, most agents would be groveling for me at this stage, begging for the chance to speak to me, to shower me in praise, thanks, adoration. But here you are, deigning to all upon me in the middle of a weekday afternoon for a favor!”   
  


“Alright, first of all: I’ll grovel if you buy me some groveling-proof clothes. Secondly: What are you talking about? What could I possibly need from you at this moment? And why would I call you without telling you why first?”

“Relax, Agent, I’m teasing. We both know you’re special, and that I’ve allowed a little bit of wiggle room for you. I wouldn’t show up for just anyone… and you know that I value your companionship.” They reach one arm out theatrically, as if to start one of their grand speeches, but another glance at the half elf makes Chaos go still. “Where are your fancy clothes? I don’t think I’ve seen you looking so plain since you went to Clyde Nite’s Night Knight School.”

“I’m taking a break from ‘Sir Fitzroy Maplecourt, Knight in Absentia of the Realm of Goodcastle.’”

It almost feels good to unburden himself, it’s like talking to an old friend.

“I’m taking a break from school entirely, actually. Most everyone is convinced I had a mental breakdown at our last meeting, It’s hard to explain you to anyone who doesn’t already understand.”

“Is that… why you were praying?”

“I guess, that and stability. I’m just saying words hoping the universe will hear them.”

“And I did.”

“Yeah, I guess you did.”

“Do you want to learn my prayer?”

_ Is Chaos, opening up to me? _

“I think that would be appropriate, Why don’t you show me?”

And that night, after dinner, with the dishes all washed and put away, the Maplecourts pray. Dendra kneels next to her bedside, wishing for her child to wake up 10 years younger. Jerry sits in his big armchair by a roaring fire, bible open on his lap, listening to the Lord on the wind. Fitzroy sits on the floor by his bed, notebook in front of him, and ventures to say his new words for the first time.

_ Blood and bone _

_ Rain and stone _

_ We seek thee Chaos, and thee alone _

_ Help us make our paths _

_ To wealth and power _

_ Help us as a chain _

_ To help our brothers _

_ And if we fall _

_ By the wayside in the night _

_ We pray that Chaos _

_ Will make our souls right. _

It feels good to say, knowing that there’s someone listening on the other end. And if it’s evil, would it really be so bad?


End file.
